I, Brandon Breyer
by AM83220
Summary: Brandon's POV through the events of the film
1. Chapter 1

With a startled shout Brandon awoke, not in his room in the morning as he expected, but somewhere else entirely! Wait, he'd just gone to bed! What happened?

All of this blazed through the panicking preteen genius' mind as he struggled to take in Mom standing in front of him, the place he'd found himself, and how he'd gotten there.

"Hey, it's me! It's Mom," she said.

"What's going on? Where am I?" he asked, nearly hyperventilating. Mom embraced him, her arms slipping around him comfortingly.

"You are all right, you're all right, you're all right. You were sleepwalking, I think."

"Yeah, I was . . ." Brandon realized, straining to sort through his hazy recollections. "There was . . . these voices or something . . ." They had called to him to come to them, and he hadn't been able to resist. He hadn't even _wanted_ to resist! He'd been promised something, something wonderful . . .

"Well, you are ok now," Mom reassured him, holding him tightly. "You are ok now."

Back in his bedroom Mom tucked him in and began to softly sing "Everything is gonna be alright", the same song she'd always sung to him whenever he was upset. It worked its usual magic, calming and soothing him. He was soon perched on the edge of sleep once more, with time only for a few final thoughts. He'd never walked in his sleep before, and hopefully wouldn't again. It was frightening and disorienting, certainly not an experience he wanted to repeat. Why had he done it now, he wondered? Given his hazy impression of receiving a great reward, he could only assume he was more excited about his twelfth birthday tomorrow and the presents he was getting than he had thought.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Brandon bent down and pulled repeatedly at the cord's handle to start the lawnmower, to no avail.

"Dangnit!" he swore. He could hardly finish the mowing before Dad got back if he couldn't even get the mower going!

"Come on!" he pled, trying again and again. "Stupid thing!" the boy complained, yanking at the cord once more. This time, however, the force of his frustration-fueled tug sent the lawnmower soaring up into the sky, crashing back down to Earth over thirty yards distant, the motor now whirring away.

Stunned, Brandon could only stare in disbelief at his own upraised hands. How . . . how on Earth could he have done that?!

Lowering his arms, the dazed boy crossed the considerable distance to the fallen machine. It had landed upside down, its blade whirring in a cutting arc too fast to be seen.

As he stared down at it, Brandon heard the voices again, the ones from his dream, still speaking to him in an indistinct murmur, one just beyond the edge of his comprehension. As before, however, he was able to grasp the general intent. Last night it had been summoning him to its source. Now it was encouraging him to raise his right hand-and plunge it straight into the spinning mower blade.

It was a crazy, self-destructive impulse, yet it was even more crazy that he'd somehow managed to fling this heavy machine so far! Brandon felt a strange confidence welling up within him, along with the voices, a sense that this was something he could handle. That, as his mother had sung to him so many times before, he would be alright.

Brandon leaned forward, slowly reaching downward, inch by tentative inch. He hesitated for a second, then quickly thrust his right hand the rest of the way.

There was an abrupt backward spray of grass and dirt particles, but no pain. He hadn't even felt an impact-but the blade was completely still, the metal noticeably bent where it had struck his hand.

His unmarked, seemingly invincible hand.

As wonder and joy engulfed him, the newly twelve year-old boy smiled. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to test and explore his newfound abilities! Still, Dad would be back in an hour and a half and would expect him to be three-fourths done with the mowing. If he wasn't, Dad would insist on him doing it now, maybe even assign him some other chores to do, birthday or not. There was no room for slacking off on a farm, Dad always said. The way to have the most time to himself was to get this mowing done first, even if every second wasted in such an ordinary activity felt like absolute torture right now.

Grabbing the warped blade, Brandon straightened it out with nothing more than a mere twist of his wrist. How strong WAS he now, he marveled! He needed to find out, longed with every fiber of his being to thoroughly test his new superhuman might! The lawn first, he reminded himself forcefully, he had to get that done first. Then he would have until dinner to experiment.

Flipping the mower right side up, he tried, much more carefully, to start it.

Nothing.

The motor had probably burnt out when the blade struck the immovable object which was his hand. Damn it! He needed this thing to work, now!

In that instant the motor roared to life again, except Brandon hadn't even touched the starter cord. It had just started on its own!

Or had it?

Narrowing his eyes, Brandon thought of the motor stopping again. Immediately it cut out.

He thought of it going, and at once it started. This was something he'd read about in science fiction novels, a kind of machine control. What had it been called? Not telepathy, no-technopathy! That was it! He didn't just have super-strength and invulnerability, he had technopathy as well!

His broad smile now stretching right across his young face, Brandon began mowing the lawn as quickly as he could. When he was more than halfway through, he realized his feet were no longer touching the ground; he was flying! Laughter spilled out of the exultant superboy as he utilized his newest power to finish the lawn in under an hour.

Quickly stowing the mower back in the barn, the empowered preteen shivered in pure delight. None of this made any scientific sense and part of him questioned how it could even be possible, but at the moment it didn't matter; this was like a dream come true! In fact, if it was a dream, then he never wanted to wake up again.

The remaining hours before supper were spent in the Drivewood forest, where he and his parents had often going camping and hunting. It was about a twenty minute car trip, but he had flown there in a mere three minutes, all while carefully hugging the ground and staying out of sight of the roads. Once he was alone and free to test himself, he had easily uprooted ancient oaks with his bare hands, flown a dizzyingly fast, jet fighter-like course between the trees, repeatedly tried in vain to so much as scratch his skin, and honed his super-speed. He was staggered by how easily and quickly he mastered his new abilities, how instinctive and natural it all seemed to him! He briefly considered showing Mom and Dad what he could do now, but quickly dismissed the idea. Superheroes were supposed to keep their real identities secret, after all.

He'd gone off to his birthday dinner at Darbo's Diner at six in the very best of moods. Celebrating much more than his parents knew, he let Mom outshoot him, and actually succeeded in grabbing a prize with the Claw! He'd been a little embarrassed when Caitlyn's mother brought him a lit birthday candle in a sundae, something which really was for little kids, but overall everything had gone great . . . until Dad tried to deny him the rifle Uncle Noah and Aunt Merilee were giving him. Then, like gasoline exposed to an open flame, his happiness had ignited into anger.

"No, come on, he's just a kid!" Dad claimed insultingly.

"I'm twelve years old," Brandon pointed out indignantly.

"I know, exactly, you are still a child," Dad shot back, his condescension virtually unbearable! How dare Dad treat him like that! He was already so much more than his father could even begin to imagine!

"Give it to me," Brandon coldly demanded.

"I'm sorry, what did you say to me?" Dad questioned in a warning tone.

Did Dad seriously think _that_ would intimidate him? Well, he'd be happy to repeat himself!

"I said, give it to me!" Brandon reiterated fiercely, slamming his right fist down on the table. Only at the last second was he able to exert enough control to avoid breaking it with his new strength. Focused as he was on holding himself back in that manner, he unconsciously lashed out with his technopathy, shutting down several of the old-time arcade machines back in the play area.

"Okay, we are done here, we're not having ice cream, thank you very much," Dad said as he stood up.

And now Dad was trying to deny him his birthday dessert too?!

"Brandon, let's go," his father commanded.

Why should he?

"Brandon, come on, let's go!"

Then Dad grabbed his left arm as they glared at one other. Brandon remained mutinously seated, smug in the knowledge that his Dad wouldn't be able to physically force him up.

"Brandon! Up! Now!" Dad ordered, after dropping his son's arm

Then Mom's voice cut through his silent, sullen fury.

"Brandon, listen to your father."

"We are leaving, let's go," Dad announced.

The resistance drained out of the boy and he reluctantly rose to leave. During the silent ride home, Brandon thought about his own behavior. He was a good kid, a teacher's pet according to Royce; he virtually never defied his parents. What did they expect, though, still treating him like a freaking little kid? Not only was he a full twelve years old, but he had all of these incredible powers now! His parents needed to learn to treat him differently than before, to treat him with the respect he deserved.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

At breakfast the next morning Brandon made the mistake of letting his attention wander. He'd stopped listening to what Mom and Dad were saying about the camping trip, instead becoming enthralled with how easily the firm metal of his fork had yielded to the sheer irresistible power of his teeth and tongue! It was so cool! But when Dad had stooped next to him and pulled the fork out of his mouth, Brandon had been at a total loss about what to say. How was he supposed to explain the deformed tines of the utensil?

Dad immediately went up to talk to Mom, and the new twelve year-old sweated inwardly the entire way to Drivewood. When he took his position with Dad in the woods after they set up the tent and the latter started to talk, his mind was still blank as to any plausible explanation. Fortunately, Dad didn't mention the fork at all! Instead he actually acknowledged how Brandon was growing up, how his body was changing. He talked about girls and the urges they stirred, and said it was okay to give in to them now and then.

That was extremely helpful information, especially since he already had a subject in mind for the urges he was feeling: Caitlyn Connor. She was pretty, smart, nice and even brave, sticking up for him like that last Friday against stupid Royce. He liked her, liked her a lot! And . . . he _wanted_ her in a way he'd never felt before.

He waited until nearly midnight before slipping out of the tent and flying to Caitlyn's house. She left her windows open, which made getting into her second storey bedroom effortless. He softly touched down on her floor and-wait, what was he supposed to do next? How was he supposed to approach her? Dad had never talked about that part!

He couldn't just walk over to her bed and wake her up, Brandon decided; he remembered all too well how scary it had been for him to be suddenly awakened Friday night. No, he needed something more gentle, something which would rouse her gradually. And hey, why not something that would make her feel romantic too? What was that called, setting the mood?

Stepping behind one of her curtains, he used his technopathy to turn on her laptop, bring her online, and direct her internet browser to the song he had chosen. Sure enough, she woke up only a moment later, except she went right over and shut the laptop. That kind of killed what he was going for, so as soon as she turned her back, Brandon started the song back up. This time she not only shut the laptop, but piled a notebook and a few other things on top of it.

Shifting nervously behind the curtain, Brandon tried to choke back his frustration. None of this was working out the way it was supposed to! What to do now? Should he announce himself, even without the music? Would she be glad to see him or would his presence frighten her? This wasn't at all like schoolwork; he honestly didn't have a clue what the right answer was!

In the end, the choice was taken out of his hands. Caitlyn saw him, yelled for her mother, and he was out of her room in under a second, his face burning red with humiliation. And to top it all off, Mom and Dad were out looking for him back at the campsite! Fortunately, they believed his excuse about getting up to pee.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Brandon didn't say a word to Caitlyn or even look at her Monday; the embarrassment was still too fresh. Instead he spent even more time than usual sketching. That generally constituted the majority of his school day in any case, since the teacher in each class always went on and on about the same thing, long after he had already fully grasped the concept. His parents, aunt, and uncle had been so impressed with his recent academic testing, but really his performance was nothing, and easily accomplished. The real puzzle was how everyone else could possibly be so slow.

In any case, he needed something to do to occupy all of the free time he had in school, and drawing, seeing his thoughts take shape on the paper before him, was pretty neat. For a few years now, he'd harbored secret ambitions of growing up to be a professional artist, like Mom. He'd even devised his own artistic signature to scrawl on his future commercial works: jagged double capital B's standing back to back. That symbol was actually his single favorite thing to sketch; it made him dream of the days ahead when people would buy his drawings and hang them in museums, just like they did with Mom's paintings.

Of course, that had been his ambition prior to his twelfth birthday, before he discovered how extraordinary he really was. Now he had much grander designs in mind.

And it was a grander design he was drawing as after school as he listened to music on his headphones after school, sat at one of the outside lunch tables, and waited for Mom to finish talking with Aunt Merilee. Brandon had sketched out a representation of himself wearing the costume he had planned. He needed something to conceal his identity and also needed something simple. Much as he would love to have a full-body suit, he really had no way of creating one; super-sewing and fashion design wasn't among his powers. So instead he had decided to go for a basic combination of a hood and a cape. He could make that, perhaps out of the red blanket on his bed. Red would definitely be a good color for his costume!

It wasn't until Mom leaned over his shoulder, looking down at his notebook, that he realized she was there! He quickly shut the book and rose, staring reproachfully up at her.

"What?" she protested. "I wasn't snooping or anything."

"It was some nice line work," she continued as he gave her the cold shoulder while they headed for the car. "Good shading."

Though he remained silent, a warm feeling grew in Brandon's chest at her praise. He'd never shown Mom his drawings before. She was a professional artist, after all, and he wasn't. He didn't want her to give him fake compliments and put his work up on the refrigerator, just because it was his. Still, she'd seemed sincere in her praise, and that meant a lot. Nonetheless he was thankful he'd been working on his artistic signature on the page she saw and not on his costume.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

It was the muttering voices which drew him out of his bedroom and down to the front of the chicken coop that night, leading him to set his half-completed costume aside. He'd fed these chickens plenty of times before, and he was used to them clustering around him, hungry for their food. Sometimes he'd gotten painfully pecked on the legs.

Now, however, his mere presence outside the door caused the birds to react with panic, fleeing away to the far end of their enclosure, treating him with dread and respect.

Brandon liked that more than he ever would have expected! It was somehow primally, blissfully satisfying to see how afraid of him they were now. For a long time, he simply stood there, virtually drinking in the intoxicating fear of these lesser beings. He wanted more, though, and so did the voices. He was getting better at grasping their intent, and he could tell they wanted him to take apart these animals. As before, the notion felt intrinsically _right_, an obvious way of viewing for himself the arousing beauty of their internal workings.

So engrossed was he that he barely heard Dad asking from behind him, "Are you all right, buddy?"

Brandon turned to face his father and answered the question honestly.

"Think so."

"Come on, man, let's get inside."

He preceded Dad uncomplainingly back into the house. This was only a delay, nothing more.

The twelve year-old waited until after midnight before returning to the chicken coop. Stopping at the locked door he and Dad had installed only yesterday, he seized hold of it and casually tore it from its frame. It had been meant to stop a wolf, but he was an astronomically more powerful predator! Nothing could stop him! He grabbed the nearest chicken and ripped its head off, appreciating the spurt of blood and frantic death struggle which resulted. Almost before he knew it, Brandon had pursued and slaughtered every one of the chickens.

As he stood amongst the fowl carnage, the boy questioned for a moment what he had done. The voices had drawn him here, urged him to do it, and he had deeply enjoyed it! Was that wrong? The wolf would have done the same thing to the chickens, if it could have. Heck, Dad had killed plenty of deer over the years and, for as long as Brandon could remember, he had longed to do the same. That was one of the reasons why Dad denying him his rifle had been so intolerable. So, then, it was natural to enjoy killing, wasn't it? Humans were predators, they had an instinct to kill, and sometimes you gave into it, just like you did with romantic feelings. Then, too, these chickens had belonged to his family; it was their right to slaughter the birds whenever they wished. That's how a farm worked; you raised, fed and sheltered lesser animals until the time came for the gain and pleasure of butchering them.

Reassured, Brandon flew back up to his window (he still couldn't get over how wonderful it felt to actually be able to _fly_!) and returned to his bed.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Wednesday afternoon started out as just another gym class, with Coach Bishop taking them out to the track circle and having them do one of his team-building exercises. This one was called "Willows in the Wind", and it involved gathering in a circle while one of them stood at the center. That person would then fall and be caught and propelled back up the rest of the students. After awhile they would switch. It was kind of fun, and he'd taken his place in the center without reservation.

He was passed around in the circle several times, at increasing speed, before abruptly finding himself smacking back down onto the asphalt track. Last week the impact would have hurt and knocked the breath out of him; now he was only surprised.

"Way to trust the floor, Breyer!" Royce chortled and some of the other kids laughed with him.

"You ok, bud?" Coach asked him. "Damnit, Caitlyn, give him a hand up!"

This was Caitlyn's fault, he realized; she had let him fall! And in response to Coach's order, she was actually shaking her head!

"Eh, hold on, we're all on the same team here."

"He's a pervert!" Caitlyn burst out.

Sudden fury roiled through him. How DARE she?! She had let him down, humiliated him and now she was calling him a pervert? He wasn't a pervert! He hadn't gone to her room just to look at her! He'd gone to let her know that he liked her, that he deemed her worthy of him. And this was how she acted toward him in return?!

"You lie!" he hissed from his place on the ground, glaring up at her.

"Caitlyn, help him, or you fail the class," Coach Bishop sternly warned.

Now she did reach down, reluctantly offering her right hand. He grasped it in his own, but he didn't use her as an anchor to pull himself up. Instead he stared angrily at their linked hands, something which would have made him happy under other circumstances. Not now, though. Now Caitlyn needed to be taught a lesson, needed to be punished for what she had done!

She attempted, without success, to pull him to his feet.

In response he raised his eyes to her's, and began to squeeze.

"What are you doing?" she asked in puzzlement.

"Brandon," Coach called, sensing something was wrong.

Like an unstoppable vise his mighty hand closed further around Caitlyn's, her pitiful efforts to pull away barely noticeable in the face of his astronomically superior strength.

"Let go! Stop it!" she yelled, and he relished the pain and sweet fear he heard in her voice. She deserved this!

"Brandon . . Brandon, stop!" Coach echoed forcefully.

Two of Caitlyn's fingers broke in his crushing grip and he finished up by snapping her wrist like a twig.

After that Coach Bishop carted Caitlyn off to the nurse's office, told Brandon to go to the principal's office, and got Mrs. Roberts to come out and take over the gym class. His parents were called, Caitlyn's parents were called, and an ambulance was called to take Caitlyn to the hospital. Before the paramedics took her away, he told her he was sorry for breaking her hand. He actually wasn't, but Mom and Dad were going to be upset enough with him as it was, doubly so if he didn't apologize.

He'd never been in trouble at school before, and that worked in his favor: his punishment was two days of in-school suspension and having to attend counseling sessions with Aunt Merilee. Having to submit to any punishment at all still sucked; it was almost as bad as enduring Mom's disappointment and anger. He tried to bring to mind the last time she'd acted that way toward him, yet even his eidetic memory failed to recall a previous incident. When she came out of the principal's office, her curt "Get up. Let's go," made Brandon want to wince.

He rose silently to go with them, only then noticing that Caitlyn, Erica's mother, was glaring at him from behind the interior glass of the principal's office. It was just like with Dad on his birthday; did she really think she could somehow intimidate _him_? He met her glare, completely unafraid, his anger instead beginning to kindle once more. Every woman in the Connor family seemed intent on pissing him off today.

The ride back was a cold, silent one. As soon as they got home, Mom told him to go up to his room, think about what he'd done, and not come down until dinner. He obeyed, trudging disconsolately up the stairs and quietly closing his bedroom door behind him. Then, as instructed, he thought.

He'd done the wrong thing today; with the benefit of hindsight and a calmer perspective, he recognized that now. He'd let his anger get the best of him and guide his actions. It seemed like he was angry a lot of the time lately! Maybe it was because of the hormones which accompanied puberty; he'd read they caused emotional volatility, and he certainly seemed to be suffering from that! Regardless, he had to get a handle on his feelings, needed to regain control of himself! He'd lost his temper and he had reaped the unpleasant consequences. He never should have hurt Caitlyn today.

He should have hurt her tonight, in her bedroom, when there were no witnesses around. That would have been the intelligent thing to do. Also, what had happened today had really driven home how much he needed to finish his hood and cape, so he could act while at the same time protecting his secret identity.

Satisfied with the conclusions he'd reached in his pondering, Brandon took the needle, thread and transformed blanket out from under his bed and set about finishing his costume.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Dinner was another unpleasant affair, and he was sent right back to his room once it was finished. Normally he'd have read or sketched, but he really didn't feel like doing either tonight. He wasn't used to this disapproval from his parents and he didn't like it at all. Eventually Brandon turned off the lights, got into bed and tried to go to sleep. He could hear Mom and Dad talking, about him he was certain, but he couldn't really make out what they were saying through the sound of the rain and the thunder.

What did still come through clearly, however, were the voices. For the first time, they spoke to him in words!

Shikaro larem olen.

This wasn't random nonsense, Brandom somehow knew These were definitely words, ones which he could almost understand! It was like when a word of was on the tip of his tongue, so tantalizingly close he could practically taste it!

The three-word message repeated itself over and over and he began whispering it to himself.

"Shikaro larem olen. Shikaro larem olen. Shikaro larem olen."

Without warning part of the sentence became clear.

"Shikaro. Shikaro. Take. Take. 'Shikaro' means take," Brandon concluded quietly as he threw back the covers, sat up in bed and turned to gaze out his window. Behind the mysterious words was an irresistible pull toward the barn, a certainty that by going there he could somehow come to comprehend the complete message.

Jumping out the window, he landed nimbly on his stocking feet and trudged slowly and purposely through the mud and rain, toward his destination.

Once inside he made his way to the back of the structure and knelt down before the trapdoors in the floor. They were closed, their handles secured together by a steel chain and padlock. What he needed was beneath them, he knew. Grabbing hold of the chain with his right hand, Brandon pulled it tight, making the metal squeal before he effortlessly snapped it, his superhuman strength far too great for the metal links to withstand. Opening the doors, he glimpsed below a large, bizarre-looking machine, bigger than he was and decked out with numerous protrusions and lights. All of those lights were glowing a bright, ruby red.

He had only an instant to take in the sight before he was completely consumed by the message, by the earth-shaking importance of it! He lost all bodily sensation and control, only able to repeat the all-important words.

"Take larem, take larem, take the, take the, take the."

Then he was back in his own body, falling, and he felt an unexpected flash of pain in his right hand as he landed in the barn's cellar. He crawled over to a far corner, breathing heavily, recovering from . . . whatever that had been.

"Baby," Mom said tenderly from behind him. When had she gotten here? He didn't know, but he was grateful for her presence as she placed a hand on his back.

"Baby, are you okay?"

"It cut me!" he told Mom plaintively as he turned around to show her, hurt and surprised. His eyes were locked on the bloody slice on the back of his right hand, between thumb and forefinger, apparently slashed open by one of the machine's protrusions as he fell. How could it _cut_ him?! A lawnmower blade hadn't been able to so much as scratch his skin! Why was this different?

Why was _he_ different?

"Ok," Mom said, inspecting his injury. "You're going to be okay, okay, okay. You are gonna be okay," she assured him, hugging him against her.

Would he, though? The overriding question he'd ignored, put aside, came roaring back into his mind: Why was he so different?

"Who am I?" he asked Mom, almost pleadingly, as she embraced him.

"You're our son," she told him firmly.

"What is this?" he asked, looking over at the weird contraption. "Where did I come from?" he persisted, pulling away and turning back to stare directly up into her eyes, determined to get answers . . . and already suspecting them. His experience had left him with a few hazy impressions of a long journey, in a conveyance designed to hold him in-in some kind of biological stasis.

"Listen, baby, I know it's been difficult for you lately, that you feel different from other kids . . . ," she began. "You are different. After your Dad and I got married, we prayed and prayed for a baby for so long to God, to the universe, or anyone that was listening and then . . . One night, one perfect night, someone listened. We did not adopt you from an agency. You came here, you arrived here, in that," she explained, nodding to the round machine, the . . . pod.

"We found you in the woods, you were just a little guy all alone . . . you could barely breathe and so we, we took you in and you've been a gift, my baby boy."

She paused, probably to give him a chance to sort through the raging maelstrom of his racing thoughts and emotions.

"I can't even imagine how overwhelmed you must feel right now . . . but you have to know that your Dad and I believe that you came here for a reason, that you are special and that you are going to do incredible th-"

"You lied to me!" he accused. At last a clear feeling had made its way through his confusion, one he'd grown exponentially more familiar with recently: anger.

"We just wanted to take care of you," she began, trying to justify their awful deception.

"You lied to me! You lied!" he repeated, his fury rapidly growing. For his whole life the people he loved and trusted the most had tricked him, made him think he was nothing more than an ordinary kid, when he was so much more, and had originated from a place so much greater!

"And we always planned how to-"

He didn't let her finish, scrambling away before he gave in to the temptation to hurt her, bolting up the ladder and fleeing the barn. He almost kept going, out into the field, but then he swerved and reentered the house. He needed to express his anger physically or he felt like he would explode! Seizing upon the many family pictures lined up on the table in the living room, he began swiping them off, smashing them on the floor, all the while shouting, "I hate you! You lied to me! You're liars, about everything you lie!"

Dad was watching, stunned, and Brandon yelled, "I hate you! I hate this place!" at him before running back outside. It hadn't worked. Smashing the pictures hadn't even served to take the edge off his rage; it was a childish expression of discontent, nothing next to what he was truly physically capable of doing in his wrath! If he couldn't get himself under control soon, he realized, he could do something he'd end up regretting far more than he did breaking Caitlyn's hand.

The three word sentence began repeating again in his mind as he stood in the yard, the rain pounding down around him. Thinking about his parents' betrayal merely fed his surging, near-murderous rage, so Brandon gratefully shifted his focus back to the mysterious words. He'd almost understood what the pod was trying to tell him, had nearly puzzled out the message from his real parents! He had only to comprehend that last word, "olen". What did it mean?

And then it came to him.

Olen means world, the twelve year-old alien realized.

Shikaro larem olen.

"Take. The. World," Brandon announced softly. "Take the world."

It all crystallized for Brandon in that instant. This was the **answer**, the answer to everything! It was why he'd been sent here, his true purpose in life, what his real parents had given him up to do. It was his destiny, and he would crush everyone who tried to keep him from fulfilling it!

Brandon gave voice to his furious determination in a literal roar and, for the first time, a flood of crimson heat energy erupted outward from his glowing eyes! As the red wave swept through the air above the empty fields, the preteen felt himself calming at last. He still felt as full of power as a nuclear reactor, but one operating normally rather than on the verge of meltdown. His anger seeped away, replaced by a complete, almost euphoric understanding of himself and his place in life. His parents' lies no longer mattered. He knew the truth now, and knew what he had to do. He would take the world. And he would begin by taking Caitlyn, letting her know she was his.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

He flew up to his room, put on his costume, and took off toward Caitlyn's house, again flying low to the ground. On the way he kept his eyes open and in the backyard garden of Caitlyn's nearest neighbor he found what he was looking. Carefully picking two of the daisies, he continued to his destination. The light was on in Caitlyn's bedroom, spilling out from her open window, and there were no cars next to the house.

He was about to enter through her window when he had second thoughts. He didn't need his hood and cape for meeting with Caitlyn. On the contrary, she was the only one he wanted to know who he was, at least for the moment. Removing his hood and cape, he carefully folded it and placed it on the ground next to her house. Then he rose to the second story and entered through the window.

Caitlyn was sitting up in bed, working on her laptop and so missed seeing him. With little more than a thought he shut the computer down. She closed the lid and saw him, her eyes widening fearfully.

"Don't scream," he ordered firmly. He didn't think anyone would hear her if she did, nor would it ultimately matter, but he wanted to talk with her this time, and screaming wouldn't help them converse.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her musical voice trembling.

"I brought you flowers," he replied, holding out the daisies. He was more confident that he was on the right track now. A guy who liked a girl was supposed to bring her flowers, right?

"You can't be here," she told him, almost pleadingly.

She'd clearly learned from her lesson earlier today, he noted approvingly. Good, they could move past that then.

"Don't be afraid. I want to talk to you," he told her, implicitly letting her know that her punishment was over.

He walked toward her, up the left side of her bed.

"I wanted to tell you what I learned tonight," he explained. "I learned that I'm very . . . special. You're one of the only people in the world who knows how special I am," he confided, wanting her to be conscious of her privileged position, of the fact that he was entrusting her with his greatest secret. "But someday, they will all know!"

"My Mom told me not to talk to you," Caitlyn protested.

A surge of renewed anger accompanied those words, even though he'd assumed as much. Mrs. Connor really thought she could keep him from the girl he liked. It was time for her to be taught a lesson too.

"I'm going to take care of that," he promised. Setting the daisies down on her closed laptop lid, he flew out the window, retrieved and redonned his costume, and flew toward the Diner. He'd noted the opening and closing times the first time his parents had taken him there, years ago, and with luck he would make it there right before closing.

It took longer than he'd thought to reach the diner without being seen, so it was just past ten when he arrived. Mrs. Connor was still there, closing up. She was the only one there. Perfect!

He could have killed her before she knew what was happening, but she deserved to suffer for what she had done, and he hated the idea of denying himself her fear, of not seeing her realize she was completely helpless before him.

Silently easing the door open, he slipped into the diner. Using his flight and superspeed, he etched dozens of his signatures on the frost-laden windows, hiding himself again before she turned around. He savored her unease, her growing fright, and the electrical devices around him reacted with his emotions, flickering.

Mrs. Connor came forward to peer up at one of the fluorescent lights and he grinned savagely behind his mask, before using his technopathy to overload and explode the tubes! The shards plunged directly down onto her upturned face, one even embedding itself in her eye! She stupidly plucked it out, apparently not knowing that foreign matter in the eye should be extracted by a medical professional.

He let her see him then, enjoying her futile grabbing of the baseball bat and her pitiful, desperate shouts to "Get out of here!" and "Leave me alone!".

She dashed into the backroom, slamming shut the door to the meat locker.

She was already down an eye, so why not show her what HIS eyes could do? Besides, he was eager to use his newest ability.

Concentrating, he focused his heat vision onto a single point and then moved it downward, steadily cutting down through the foot-thick metal door. Flying up, he grabbed the two halves of the door at the top and flew backward at nearly the speed of sound, violently ripping both parts of the door and sending them flying!

He let her see him again, standing on the other side of the room. Then he flashed across the distance between them, his right hand cutting deep incision from the base of her neck down to her navel.

She would never get in his way again.

For a few moments Brandon simply admired the beauty of her revealed internal organs. Then he took her corpse in his arms and flew home.

He placed her in the barn's cellar, against the wall. That would be a good place to store the body, since from his encounter with his pod, he understood or thought he understood, that it generated a kind of bio-stasis field. That was how he'd stayed alive for his trip here, and he hoped, that the field would keep Mrs. Connor's body from decaying. He would know for sure in about a day. If her eyes remained pristine, then it was working since, contrary to all of those zombie shows and movies, the eyes were always the first part of the body to decay after death.

If it didn't work, he'd have to dispose of her rotting corpse somewhere elsewhere and risk it being found, but that was a matter for tomorrow. At peace once again, Brandon practiced painting his signature on the wall, using as paint Ericka Connor's more than ample supply of blood.

When he woke up the next morning Brandon's thoughts turned to his adoptive parents. He considered them as he showered, got dressed and brushed his teeth. He sat down on his bed, still thinking. Mom and Dad had lied to him, but thanks to the foresight of his real parents, everything had come out and worked out perfectly anyway! He knew the truth, knew what he was meant to do, what he would do! He could forgive Mom and Dad for their lies. They'd taken him in, raised him, loved him, and he loved them. He DID forgive them.

Brandon went down to the kitchen, saying "Morning" to his parents.

"Eh, bud," Dad said hesitantly. "You know you are gonna be late for school, right?"

"Yeah, I know," he replied. Not that it mattered much if he was late for his first day of in-school suspension. "I was just in my room, thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

"Just about everything, and . . It's totally cool. I feel good," he explained

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way, buddy," Dad answered, his relief obvious.

"Me too," Mom smiled.

"You know, why don't you grab a seat, ten minutes late never killed anyone, right?" Dad suggested jovially.

Mom drove him to school afterward and the in-school suspension turned out to be less boring than he'd feared. Once he'd finished his schoolwork for the day, which took only an hour, he was free to concentrate on his artwork. He drew a great scene of him using his heat-vision to cut into the meat locker, while a slash-eyed Mrs. Connor cowered in the corner. Inspired by his own work, he next sketched a picture of himself flying out into space, using his heat vision to pierce the Earth's crust and destroy the planet. Not that he would ever do that, but it was fun to draw. Lastly, in remembrance of a historical pyramid of skulls the Mongols had created, he penned a picture of himself floating triumphantly over a vast mound of corpses, all people who had dared oppose his conquest of Earth.

Aside from lunch the only break in the day was a trip down to Aunt Merilee's office for counseling. As he took his place in the chair across from her desk, he glanced at the poster up on the wall, a picture of an open oyster with a pearl inside and the caption, "The World Is Your Oyster". How true, at least for him!

"So, I know this is kind of strange," Aunt Merilee began. "I'm your aunt and I'm also your counselor, but I'm the only one the district has got, so you're stuck with me. So, Brandon, your Mom tells me that you've been having some issues lately about being adopted."

"Nothing bad, only good ones," Brandon answered honestly. Aunt Merilee had said numerous times in the past that counseling sessions were confidential, and Brandon intended to take advantage of that fact. Not that he would tell her the whole truth, of course, but he could be a lot more straightforward than otherwise, and use her reaction as a kind of testing ground for talking to Mom and Dad.

"Really? How so?" she asked.

"I've realized I'm special, because my real parents aren't from a stupid place like here." By which he meant Earth, rather than the small town of Brightburn.

"Brandon, you don't think of your Mom and Dad as your real parents?"

No, that wasn't what he'd meant.

"I do, I just know I'm something else, something superior," he stated, and it felt great to be able to say it aloud!

"Brandon, do you feel bad about what you did to Caitlyn?"

Of course he didn't! She'd deserved it, but he couldn't say that. Perhaps a more oblique reply, one which still got the point across.

"You know, sometimes when bad things happen to people, it's for a good reason."

"Brandon, part of my job is to update the school and update your Mom on your progress and let them know if you are showing any growth of remorse and I . . . I can't take it easy on you because you are my family. Brandon, I'm giving you the opportunity to talk to me. I'm supposed to update the Sheriff tomorrow, and I have to be honest with him."

What?! He'd thought everything he said was confidential! He never would have said all of this had he known she'd repeat it! Telling what he had said to Mom, much less to the Sheriff, would be disastrous! His features tightened in anger as he glared across the desk at his aunt.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Brandon spent the rest of Thursday upset and tense, knowing that tomorrow the axe would fall. Mom and Dad would find out his feelings, and the Sheriff would learn he thought Caitlyn's punishment was deserved. His Earth parents would be hurt and disappointed, and the Sheriff might even begin considering him as a suspect in Mrs. Connor's disappearance. And if Mom and Dad ever told the Sheriff that he wasn't from this world . . .

When he got home the house was empty, with a note from Mom that she'd be home at 7:00 with dinner and that Dad was out playing pool with Uncle Noah. Tired and badly stressed, Brandon trudged upstairs and lay down on his bed, trying to get some rest and relief in slumber before Mom brought dinner.

There was no chance of getting to sleep, however, not with the voices in his head. They didn't speak in words this time, conveying only a sense of the importance of secrecy, of keeping his identity unknown to humanity until he had achieved absolute mastery over the Earth. On and on the virtual shout went, like the pounding waves of the ocean on the shore, steadily eroding and wearing away at his deep reluctance to do what was necessary. What he HAD to do!

At last Brandon rose up, put on his hood and cape, and took off toward Aunt Merilee and Uncle Noah's house. He reached his destination in less than a minute and stopped, hovering outside a second storey window. Just beyond the thin pane of glass was Aunt Merilee. The lights flashed on and off in the room, his technopathy going haywire in the wake of his conflicted feelings. He waited for Aunt Merilee to see him, but she didn't, turning away and leaving the room. He tried to will himself to move forward, to smash through the window and eliminate the threat . . . but he couldn't. He couldn't kill his Aunt! Not without giving her one final chance to survive.

Returning home, he grabbed his school backpack, flew again to Aunt Merilee's, and then removed and carefully stored his costume in the backpack. He needed it to look like he'd walked straight from home to here. He knocked on the front door, then impatiently he knocked again, having to take care the second time to keep his fist from inadvertently smashing though the wood.

At last Aunt Merilee opened the door, visibly flustered.

"Brandon, Jesus, what are you doing here?" she asked irritably.

Not the best of starts, Brandon thought, his heart sinking.

"I need to talk to you. I know it's late, but I promise I won't take long."

"O.K., fine," she allowed.

"Back in your office, you mentioned something about talking to the Sheriff tomorrow?" he asked, wanting to make absolutely sure first.

"That's right."

"Yeah, the thing is . . ." Brandon paused momentarily, wondering how to put this. Best just to be blunt.

"That can't happen," he stated firmly, shaking his head a little for emphasis. "Ever, it's just not good for anyone. Not for me, not for my parents, and it's really, really not good for you," Brandon concluded, hoping against hope his words and tone would get through to her. He wished he could give Aunt Merilee a demonstration of his superpowers to persuade her, but he could never trust her to keep quiet after that, so the result would be the same either way.

"Brandon, listen to me, okay?" she said in an overly-patient voice. "I have to do my job. And, to be honest, you showing up at my house this late, it's very inappropriate. I'm gonna need you to go home now, okay?"

He'd done his best.

"All right, I'll walk home."

"Be safe, okay?" she said.

"You too," he returned, bleakly knowing that he would be safe, and she would not be. He'd see to that himself.

She shut the door and he donned his costume, stashing his backpack at the side of the house. He had learned from the much-publicized police investigation into Mrs. Connor's disappearance. Rather than simply smash his way in, he used his technopathy to trigger the house's area alert security warning in the backyard. When Aunt Merilee came out to investigate, he flew into the house through the open door, hiding in the shadows of the living room. Aunt Merilee came back inside, closing the door behind her. This was the time; she wouldn't feel a thing.

Yet before he could bring himself to act, she was climbing the stairs. Following silently in her wake, he came to the master bedroom. His aunt was lying on the bed, right in front of him, her peaceful breathing suggesting she was falling asleep. He'd giver her another minute, break her neck before she could awaken, and then position her body to make it look like she had fallen down the stairs. That was the way to do it. Brandon braced himself in preparation.

Then the front door downstairs opened.

What the-Uncle Noah was home already?! Bad enough he had to kill Aunt Merilee; he certainly didn't want to kill BOTH of his godparents! Brandon flew into the bathroom to wait for Uncle Noah to go to bed and fall asleep. Unfortunately, Uncle Noah came into the bathroom to brush his teeth, forcing Brandon to lurk like a giant spider in the upper corner of the shower. As Uncle Noah finished brushing his teeth and spat, however, Brandon saw he was clearly visible in the mirror! Damn it!

He flew at super-speed into the closet area connecting the bathroom and bedroom. He couldn't go beyond there now, or he risked waking up Aunt Merilee. The rush of air from his flight, however, attracted Uncle Noah's attention, and the adult quickly followed. As Brandon stood in the dark, trying frantically to figure out where to go next, how he could hide, Uncle Noah pulled the string to turn on the light, then turned and saw him!

"Oh, shit!" the adult cried, staring down at him. Immediately his hand came up and he rudely yanked Brandon's hood off.

"Brandon? What the fuck are you doing?!" he demanded angrily.

His brain finally decided to kick in, spewing out a suitable alibi for his presence.

"Aunt Merilee was helping me with my homework," he muttered.

"No, what the fuck are you doing in my closet, wearing this creepy mask?" he demanded, brandishing the hood in one hand.

Already frustrated and exasperated from his recent experiences, Brandon found himself stung by the criticism.

"It's not creepy!" he protested. His hood was cool and bad-ass, like an executioner's hood from the Middle Ages!

"You scared the shit out of me, you weirdo!" Uncle Noah raved.

Not nearly as scared as he should have been, considering Brandon could kill him with a flick of a finger, the twelve year-old reflected resentfully! Instead, however, he'd been doing his very best to save Uncle Noah's life, and this was his thanks!

"Come on, I'm taking you home." Uncle Noah announced.

Brandon steeled himself as the two walked back into the master bedroom. If his uncle woke up Aunt Merilee to talk to her, his entire story would unravel and he'd have no choice but to kill them both, precisely what he'd been spending all of this time and effort trying to avoid!

For once tonight, however, things went right and he was roughly ushered down the stairs and out the door.

"This is fucking insane," Uncle Noah growled, further irritating his nephew.

"I didn't do anything!" Brandon pointed out, telling the whole truth this time. "Are you gonna tell my parents?" he needed to know.

"You're lucky if that's all I do!" the man threatened and Brandon felt his own anger rise once more.

"Get in the truck."

"You shouldn't tell my parents," he warned, giving Uncle Noah, too, one final chance to survive.

Ignoring this lifeline, his uncle circled around to driver's door and opened it while Brandon redonned his hood. When he saw Brandon still hadn't gotten into the passenger's seat, though, he stormed back around the vehicle and stupidly grabbed his nephew's left arm to pull him around.

"Brandon, get in the truck!" he snarled, and the superboy acted. His eyes glowing red, Brandon broke free and with a single shove sent his Uncle flying back into the garage door! By the time the adult recovered, Brandon was watching from far above. Instead of heading back into the house, which Brandon couldn't allow, Uncle Noah got into the truck, started it, and drove off, presumably heading for the Breyer house to speak with his parents.

Enough with all of the maddening frustrations of tonight! It was time to have some fun!

He kept pace with the truck for a few miles, a supreme predator hunting its pathetic prey, then swooped down like a hawk and smashed in the passenger-side window. It was a glancing, taunting strike meant to cause fear. Then Brandon shot ahead, used his technopathy to stall the truck's engine, and slowly descended to stand in the roadway. He allowed the lights from the truck to illuminate him, showing himself to his victim. He shut them off for a few seconds, rose a foot into the air, and let the lights shine again, so his uncle could see the clear space between the road and his hovering nephew. Uncle Noah deserved the terror of knowing how infinitely superior his killer was to him!

It was time to finish him off, and in a way which wouldn't seem suspicious. Like an apparent auto accident! Perfect, especially since Uncle Noah's breath confirmed he'd been drinking.

Zooming to the rear of the stationary vehicle, Brandon allowed the headlights to glow one more time, to show his uncle that he was gone. Then the young alien reached beyond the bumper and lifted up the multi-ton truck as easily as if were one of his old Hot Wheel toys! Heart singing with proud joy, Brandon flew up about twenty feet and dropped the front of the pick-up directly down onto the road.

Landing in a field adjacent to the crash, his cape fluttering heroically in the evening breeze, Brandon took in the wrecked vehicle with Uncle Noah trapped inside, his jaw broken off from the impact and blood everywhere! Slowly he approached, all but hypnotized by the work of brilliant performance art he had inadvertently created, an awesome tribute and homage to his own superhuman power! He even took off his hood, not wanting his view of this breathtakingly beautiful image to be obscured in the slightest!

Kneeling down at shattered window, Brandon slowly reached in toward the terrified, dying man, dipping the tip of his right index finger in Uncle Noah's blood. Glad he'd had the chance to practice with Mrs. Connor's blood, Brandon used that warm, crimson fluid, to painted his double-B onto the pavement, signing a piece of art which far outshone any painting his mother had ever created! He would undoubtedly sketch this scene in the future, more than once, but Brandon doubted he would ever be able to fully recapture with a pencil the gory, majestic loveliness spread out before him in real life.

Only the sound of an oncoming car sent Brandon reluctantly flying away from the marvelous scene. He pondered whether he should go back to visit Aunt Merilee, but surely her husband's sudden death would keep her from speaking with the Sheriff anytime soon. Perhaps losing Uncle Noah would even change her mind about taking it easy on him, since her remaining family might then seem more valuable to her. It was worth a shot.

He flew home after nearly forgetting to retrieve his backpack, and discovered both Dad's truck and Mom's car there. They'd be upset at him for being out so late, and would be sure to notice the bloodstains on his shirt. He needed an explanation for why he hadn't come home yet, preferably one which would make them sympathetic toward him instead of mad and also address the problem of his bloody shirt. It wasn't like he could pass the blood there off as his own; except for the cut to his hand from his ship (which had already healed) he'd never bled in his life. Still, in the time it took him to hide his hood and cape near his ship (he noted with satisfaction that Mrs. Connor's body showed no signs of decay whatsoever!), he managed to come up with a pretty good story.

Taking off his shirt and crumpling it up into a ball, then slinging his backpack onto his bare shoulders, he opened the front door.

In the face of his parents' frantic, angry questions he went straight into his planned explanation.

"I was playing soccer," he started.

"You were playing soccer all this time?!" came Dad's incredulous rejoinder.

"Well, after school. Royce asked me if I wanted to play and as soon as they started . . ." he hesitated at this point, playing up his façade of sadness. "They were tripping me and pushing me to the ground, and they were all laughing because my shirt got ripped." He sniffled a bit, to emphasize how sad he was. "And I just decided to walk home. I know I should have called," he finished, preemptively conceding their biggest point against him.

"Yes," Mom agreed.

"Actually, I'm just really tired. I'm gonna go to bed."

"Ok, let me take this," Mom said, reaching to take his shirt.

"No, no, don't worry about it, it's fine," he said hurriedly, holding tightly onto the garment. They were letting him go, and hadn't even yelled! Congratulating himself on a persuasive story, well told, the exultant twelve year-old alien went up to this room, hid the shirt behind his dresser and slipped into bed. Things hadn't gone as planned tonight, not at all, but he'd made the best of it, in the process creating a work of true beauty. With that pleasing thought in mind, Brandon Breyer slid happily into slumber.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Still in a cheerful mood the next day, he was eating a breakfast of sugar rice pops when Mom and Dad came into the kitchen.

"Morning, baby," Mom said softly, leaning down in front him while Dad stood on the other side of the kitchen. "Listen, there's something that we need to discuss with you." "And it's probably going to be hard to hear. . . last night your Uncle Noah . . . he died last night."

"Ok," Brandon replied. It was more than ok, of course. Uncle Noah had deserved to die from the way he had acted, and killing him had been not only a lot of fun, but had led to the creation of by far the twelve year-old's best work of art.

"Brandon, do you understand?" Mom asked, visibly concerned as she laid a hand on his left arm. "Your Uncle Noah passed away; he's gone."

"I feel like you want me to cry or something," he answered in annoyance, but almost immediately realized his words were too challenging, too confrontational.

"Do you wanna cry?" Mom asked, prompting a micro-shrug.

"Brandon, we know that you were at Merilee's last night."

"Honey, I'm your Mom, I will always defend you. But if you know something about what happened to Noah, you need to tell us."

"I don't know what happened to him, but I would never hurt Uncle Noah. I love him."

Now his words were the right ones, but his tone was wrong; it was too calm and dispassionate for what he was claiming, for the emotional subject under discussion. Damn it! He'd done such a good job last night, but now he was messing up! If only he had greater experience lying to his parents! For the first time ever, Brandon actually wished he was more like Royce.

"This is bullshit, he is fucking lying!" Dad burst out.

"Kyle," Mom started, but he paid no heed to her.

"Look we know you were there. What else are you lying to us about?" Dad demanded.

How had this gotten so bad, so quickly, Brandon wondered, his heart pounding. Any lingering hope he had that he might be able to share his destiny with his parents evaporated. It was clear they would never understand, didn't even want to try to understand!

"Can you calm down?" Mom asked irritably.

"Were you in Caitlyn's bedroom?" Dad questioned aggressively, further spiking Brandon's alarm.

"He was camping with us!" Mom defended him.

"Where were you Wednesday evening, when Caitlyn's Mom went missing?" Dad persisted.

"This is not helping," Mom complained, only for Dad to bark, "He's lying to our fucking faces!"

Dad was getting way too close to the truth, and he himself was screwing up left and right! It was time to get out of here!

"I'm gonna go upstairs," Brandon announced, standing up and starting to move past them to leave the kitchen.

"No, you are not!" Dad countered. "You are not going anywhere until we get all of this on the table."

Then, to the alien boy's surprised outrage, Dad actually _grabbed_ him by the left arm and spun him around!

"Kyle, I will handle it," Mom tried to insist.

Leaning down Dad shouted accusingly, right in Brandon's face, "Did you hurt Noah? What did you do to him? He was my friend!" The angry questions were punctuated by grabbing both of his shoulders, shaking him, and the potent mixture of alarm, fear, and sheer indignance over Dad manhandling him like a pathetic human child proved too much for Brandon's fraying self-control.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted, and with an almost completely checked push to the chest sent the adult man flying across the kitchen and smashing into the opposite wall.

Breathing hard, he stared challengingly at his father, struggling to keep from further vengefully demonstrating to Dad the fact that his pubescent son's muscles were the strongest things on Earth now.

"Brandon!" Mom gasped in shock and then stopped, apparently at a loss. Her hands touched his chest and back.

"You need to go to your room. Just go to your room," Mom ordered gently.

He did go upstairs, but instead of going into his room, he went into the bathroom to take his shower. He'd have to leave for his last day of in-school suspension soon, and for once he was glad to be leaving! Dad was onto him, suspicious of everything he had done and tried to keep hidden, for both his parents' benefit and his own. Why couldn't Dad let all of this go? Why couldn't he leave well enough alone? He had to accomplish his mission, his purpose here, but would he have to sacrifice his adopted parents love in the process?

Unwilling to even consider the possibility, he shut the shower off, took a towel from the rack, and dried himself before wrapping it around his waist. Crossing the hall to his room, Brandon was more than surprised to find Dad waiting there!

"Dad?" he exclaimed questioningly; afraid his father was here to continue the interrogation.

"Eh, Bud, I wanted to apologize. We've been going through a lot lately and . . . I shouldn't have said what I said to you."

"Ok," Brandon acknowledged, wonderful relief surging though him. If Dad was actually apologizing, then he wasn't as close to the truth as Brandon had feared. There was still a chance to learn from all of the mistakes and slip-ups he'd made in the past week, to keep his secret from his parents, at least until he ruled the world.

Friday passed without incident and more good news came the next day, with Dad wanting to take him on a weekend hunting trip to Drivewood. That should be no problem, he figured. It was too soon for him to approach Caitlyn again, and Aunt Merilee would surely need more than a weekend to get back to her job. He would go with Dad and lull any of his father's lingering suspicions about him.

They left late Saturday afternoon, after lunch, having spent the morning handling a full two days' worth of farm chores. Of course, Brandon could have finished all of them in under five minutes, but he'd learned his lesson. This whole weekend he would be perfectly normal, although he had packed his costume, just in case of emergency.

Mom was waiting at the side of the truck to see them off.

"Eh, don't forget these," Mom said, handing him his gloves. "Just wear them for me," she added, correctly reading his expression. Of course she had, she was his Mom!

"Ok," he assented.

"You'll always be my baby boy," she said embarrassingly, but he didn't protest as she hugged him. "Oh, my god, you are getting so tall!" she marveled, these words much more to his liking. For an instant he longed to show her that he wasn't just growing taller, that he had already grown to become the most powerful being on this pathetic planet! But he couldn't.

"Go have fun with your, Dad, okay?" Mom urged him, smiling.

"Alright," Brandon concurred.

"Seatbelt," she reminded him, pulling out for him.

"Alright," Brandon responded.

"See you Sunday," Dad called out before they drove off.

The drive was a quiet one, and Dad didn't speak much while they were setting up the tent. Afterwards they began prowling the woods in search of prey. For the first couple of hours they found nothing. Brandon was starting to think they wouldn't even see any deer, when he spotted a set of tracks in the dirt.

"These are deer tracks," he called back to Dad, proud to have spotted them first. He knelt down next to his discovery to examine it more closely. "Looks like there's more than one set of tracks," he told his father. An idle daydream flitted through his mind then, of how easy it would be to fly after these deer, overtake them as they fled from him in delicious, delirious panic, and then simultaneously crush both of their throats in his hands! Easier, quicker, and certainly a much more fun way of hunting! Sadly, it wasn't a real option. Dad, and maybe Mom as well, were too suspicious of him; he needed to make certain he acted like nothing more than a normal human boy in their presence from now on. That meant hunting down the deer the slow way, the inferior way, the human way.

It was pretty ironic Dad believed he was too young for a rifle, given that with his newfound superpowers, he could hunt down and kill more deer in an afternoon than Dad could in a lifetime! He was an infinitely more powerful, more deadly weapon than any mere firearm!

The sharp crack of a rifle shot shattered the early evening stillness, startling the crouched boy. Almost simultaneous with the sound came a tiny impact at the back of Brandon's head. He clapped a hand to the back of his head, knowing he'd been shot, knowing too who must be responsible, yet unable to fully believe it. Rising Brandon spun around and stared in shocked, heartbroken betrayal at his father, HIS OWN FATHER, who was holding Grandpa Jim's discharged rifle!

How could he? How could he?

Hands shaking, the man who'd raised him fumbled to load another bullet into the rifle. Although a second shot would have harmed him no more than the first, the sight of "Dad" reloading and starting to raise the gun was enough to break Brandon out of his stunned emotional paralysis. He flew off at super-speed, reaching their campsite in mere seconds and throwing on his costume. Then he flew back, faster than he ever had before, his super-powers seemingly fueled by his all-consuming, incandescent **RAGE**!

He spotted the traitor below him, trying to run away. Brandon landed in his adoptive father's retreating path, standing defiantly, virtually inviting another bullet. Or two, or ten, or twenty of them! He would let his would-be murderer use up all of the ammo the man had brought in order to prove his own invincibility!

Instead his false father turned and ran in another direction, too afraid to even try another attack. As if he could actually escape, as if Brandon would ever let him!

He soared after the human, pouncing midair and flinging the rifle away to one side as he sent the adult skidding across the leaves. He landed then, stalking toward his fallen father, letting the fear of his deliberately slow, predatory approach build in the frantic, worthless worm of a human.

"Please, please . ." he begged as Brandon seized his hunting vest and yanked him up to a sitting position. The adult's hands closed around the twelve year-old's forearms, seeking in vain to pry them away, to move limbs stronger than he could even begin to imagine!

"Brandon, please stop, don't hurt me, okay?" he whined pathetically. "Don't, don't, I'm sorry!

After trying to KILL him, to just shoot him in the back of the damn head, Dad **DARED** to beg for mercy?! Unable to stand looking at that pleading, treacherous face for even an instant longer, Brandon furiously unleashed his heat vision to burn it away. Twin beams blazed forth from his glowing eyes, searing the flesh from his father's face, incinerating the brain, and subsequently bursting out the back of the man's skull.

Ceasing his heat vision, the alien superboy let the corpse fall limply back to the ground, impossibly frustrated at having lost control of himself yet again. The treacherous monster who'd called himself Brandon's father had deserved to suffer in agony for hours before dying!

The sound of Dad's phone vibrating in his pocket caught the preteen alien's attention. Reaching down, he pulled it out and saw Mom's name on the screen. Had she been in on this betrayal? He had to know, and if so, he had to do something about it. Taking again to the sky, traveling at maximum speed, Brandon answered the phone.

"Kyle, I'm sorry, you were right, baby, you were right, he killed Noah!" came Mom's frantic voice. "Brandon, he killed Noah, and . . . Kyle?" she said questioningly.

"Mom," Brandon replied, straining with everything he had to keep his voice cold and calm as his house came into view beneath him.

"Where's Dad?" she asked fearfully.

"He's gone," Brandon told her, relishing the moment.

"Gone where?"

"You know," he replied.

"No, no, I don't know where. Where are you?" Mom demanded.

"I'm home, Mom," he warned her, before lowering the cellphone to his side and crushing the device in his fist. Mom wouldn't get off so easily! By the time he was finished, he vowed to himself, she would be out of her mind with terror!

This house was the place he'd lived at and called home for as long as he could remember, growing up with the adoptive parents whom he'd wrongly thought had loved him. Furious loathing possessed Brandon and with a roar of rage he flew down and smashed off the corner section of the master bedroom from the rest of the building! Turning on a dime, he plunged back down into and through the attic, still bellowing his pure agony and hate to the treacherous mother who'd turned against her own son!

Brandon took a gleefully savage pleasure in repeatedly flying at top speed through the walls of the house, making the entire structure tremble with the force of his impacts as he showed Mom just how unstoppably powerful her super-son really was!

Swooping up to above the second floor, he glanced down through the broken living room window. She was on the phone, most likely with the police. Did she really thing the police could help her? Did she actually believe anything she could possibly do would even so much as slow him down, much less spare her from his wrath? Maybe she did, since Dad had been idiot enough to think a rifle bullet would kill him! Just like with Dad, he'd make her see how wrong she was!

He used his technopathy to shut down her cellphone, not wanting her to be able to say exactly what was happening. An interrupted call to 911 should bring the police running anyway, especially when their return calls to the house went unanswered.

Brandon then crashed through the walls of the living room twice, at just over head height, before curving back up into the sky. Far below him in every way, Mom peeked out from underneath the counter. As with Uncle Noah, he let her see him hovering there, let her view her own doom, before moving out of sight.

He waited then, heightening her fear by not letting her know where he was now. He waited until he heard the Sheriff's voice outside and then shut down all of their communications. Flying over the ruined house, he saw the Sheriff and a woman deputy advancing through the front yard. This was who Mom thought would save her? As if!

The Sheriff was calling her to come to the sound of his voice, and he could hear her respond from inside the house. Judging her relative position carefully, he plunged through the hall wall right in front of her, barely missing her and being rewarded with a gratifyingly panicked scream.

Emerging over the backyard he circled around and off to the west side, planning what he would do next. Mounting the steps, speaking to Mom, Sheriff Deever assured her, "You're safe now, we got-". On that last word Brandon accelerated as fast as he could toward the man, striking and splattering the human apart like a bug on a windshield!

That's how much your rescuers are worth, Mom! Nothing!

The female deputy he allowed to enter the house. She shouted for Mom to hide and called frantically for reinforcements, without success. She seemed to be moving toward the back of the house, so he positioned himself in front of the backdoor for her to see. Once she had, he flew at superspeed behind her, grabbed her, and used her body as a battering ram to wreck the upstairs hall floor and ceiling, whipping her fiercely between the two surfaces before finally flinging her shattered, dying form into his bedroom.

All of this destruction, all of this showing of his superhuman power, had still barely taken the edge off of Brandon's white-hot fury! Knowing Mom was somewhere upstairs, even if he wasn't sure exactly where, he decided to further torment her by mockingly whistled the "Marco" sound she had used in the morning when they played their game of hide and seek. He was the seeker now, and once he found her, their game would be finished forever.

To avoid the uncertain footing of the smashed floor and simply to revel in his own abilities, Brandon floated a half foot in the air as he searched for Mom. He checked his bedroom, and seeing only the dead deputy, floated down the hall to the master bedroom. She wasn't under the bed there or in the closet, but he heard a sound from back in his room. Rushing back at super-speed, eyes glowing, he peered under his bed, but there was no one there. He went through every upstairs room, and found nothing! Crashing out through the master bedroom window, he gazed down from his elevated position to see her fleeing across the yard and into the barn.

He'd assumed she'd be virtually catatonic after seeing what he could do! Why was running to the barn? Didn't she realize it would no more protect her than the house had? Whatever, it didn't matter! Wherever she sought shelter, sought to hide, he would demolish that place! With another scream of rage, he barreled into and through the barn, then did the same thing again. He stopped then, not wanting to collapse the barn on top of her. was about to pass through the building a third time when he heard her voice.

Not yelling, not crying, but calling. Calling for him!

"Brandon, where are you, baby?"

Wha-what was she DOING?! Why was she calling to him instead of trying to run and hide? It made no sense! It was contrary to everything he knew, all of his instincts! Then . . . then she actually _whistled_ for him!

He flew inside the barn and landed about ten feet from her, giving the answering whistle.

"Mom," he stated, wholly unsure what to say or do next, horribly confused by her actions and the affection in her voice. As it had so many times before over the last few days, that familiar, loved voice short-circuited the fiery anger in him.

"Brandon . . . Listen to me . . .," she began as she actually walked toward him! "I have never stopped loving you. I believe, I still believe, you are a blessing that fell to this Earth." She gently pulled off his torn hood and he let her, his mind filled to bursting now with questions. What did she mean, she still believed he was a blessing? Hadn't she known Dad was going to kill him and gone along with it? Had he misunderstood, condemned her with his faithless father when she didn't deserve his wrath at all? Had all of this been his worst mistake yet?

She took his face in her hands.

"When we found you . . . You were so tiny and fragile, and all we could do was keep you safe . . . Whatever you've done, I know there is good inside you!"

"I want to do good, Mom. I do," he told her earnestly.

He said it partially to placate her, but he wasn't lying. He'd explain to her how much better things would be for her inferior race once he killed enough people for humanity to bow before his unquestioned, absolute dominance. Under his rule, there would be no more petty divisions, no wars, no famine, no conflict of any kind! He would ensure that, just as they had done here with the animals on the farm. This would be exactly the same thing, except on a far larger scale. He would be the farmer and humans the lesser beings who were in his care and under his protection. Mom would get that analogy, wouldn't she? She was born and raised a farm girl! He was certain she would understand!

"And you will," she assured him. "You will always be . . my baby boy."

Enthralled as he was with hope-filled, happy thoughts, Brandon nearly missed noticing Mom's right arm unwinding from their mutual hug, rising up and away from him, even as her words continued to comfort and embrace him.

He glanced upward curiously and saw her clutching something in her hand, something she was bringing down toward him. He caught her wrist in his own hand and squeezed tightly enough for her to release what she was holding. It fell to the floor, a sharp shard of metal. It looked like part of his ship, the ship whose metal was the only thing which had ever cut him . . .

She had tried to stab him in the back with it.

All of her talk about loving him, about him being her baby boy, it had all been lies! She'd only wanted to stall him, trick him until she could kill him! Just like Dad, she was a traitor who hated him!

The rage returned in a rush, filling him completely, so much so that he could barely think! And then, then she said, "Oh, Brandon, I'm sorry! Oh, Brandon-"

Exactly what Dad had said after failing to kill him! Yeah, she was sorry, sorry she had underestimated his POWER! That was the only thing the worthless, treacherous bitch was sorry about!

Roaring in utterly betrayed, heart-rending fury, Brandon took off into the air like a rocket, holding her to him as he smashed up through the barn's roof, endlessly ascending into the heavens! He soared up over six miles before stopping, the slowly turning world now at his feet literally as well as figuratively.

He stared at the only mother he'd ever known, the person he'd loved most, her face badly bruised and bloodied from their abrupt passage through the ceiling of the barn. He would never, never have hurt her if she had truly loved him! He would have given her anything she wanted once the world was his, would've made sure she was almost as worshipped by the humans as he would be! As the cherished mother of Earth's God Emperor, her every wish and desire would have been fulfilled instantly.

But she didn't love him. Like Dad, she hadn't even tried to understand, to hear his side of it! If she had her way, her "precious baby boy" would be dead at her own hands! She reached out a hand to cradle his cheek, but what she had done was unforgiveable. He had no choice now but to let her go.

So that is exactly what Brandon did, releasing his traitorous mother at thirty-six thousand feet in the air. Her mouth open in a scream, she tumbled helplessly down toward the planet which now belonged solely to her son. He watched her fall, saw the terror in her face as she disappeared into the clouds.

Now what was he supposed to do, Brandon asked himself grimly. With his damned false parents dead and their house all but destroyed, with the Sheriff and his deputy killed responding to a call at the Breyer residence, how could he ever go back to Brightburn? Should he disappear, go somewhere else on the planet to live? But what about Caitlyn? She knew about him, he couldn't just leave her and didn't want to! Yet if he took her with him now, she'd surely try to run away the first chance she got.

A screeching noise came from his left and Brandon turned to see a huge airliner roaring across the sky, like a metal dragon come to challenge him. This plane wasn't a challenge or a problem, though, the alien superboy almost immediately realized: it was a solution!

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Sitting on the end of an ambulance, munching a chocolate chip cookie one of the paramedics had given him after examining him, Brandon let his eyes roam over his mesmerizing masterpiece, the largest and best work of performance art he'd created to date! Pieces of the plane were strewn everywhere, along with the bodies. Two hundred and sixty-eight of them, according to the rescue workers. There were no survivors; he'd made sure of that immediately after crashing the jet into the house, right before burning Mrs. Connor's corpse to ash. The plane crash explained the state of the house, the death of his parents and the police, everything except the call to 911, but hopefully the authorities would put that down as Mom seeing the plane coming down toward her and phoning for help. Hopefully, too, they wouldn't notice his signature drawn in blood on a piece of the wreckage. It was reckless, he knew, but he couldn't bear to allow such a work of beauty to go unsigned!

In the future he would create pictures far grander, likely even bring to life the mountain of corpses he'd sketched. For now, though, Brandon Breyer sat quietly content, eating his cookie and appreciating his work. This was only the beginning. He would make his parents, his REAL parents, proud!

ΩΩΩΩΩ

**Notes**: I loved the Brightburn film, but I think it could have really benefitted from a matching novelization, to spell out what was going through Brandon's mind during the events depicted. In the absence of such a novelization, I have done my best to depict his thoughts as I imagine them to be. I'll probably do a second chapter eventually, focusing on the credit scenes, but a very good friend of mine is leaving for the Army on November 18th, and I wanted to get this posted so he could read it before departing. I dedicate this story to him, a fanfiction author known on this site as 90TheGeneral09. Please check out his work, especially his excellent fanfic tales for "The Good Son" movie!

I hope you liked this story, and if so, please let me know! If not, please tell me why not! Honest feedback is a fanfiction author's only payment!


	2. Chapter 2

Brandon hovered in mid-air over the busiest intersection in town, long enough to be clearly and unmistakably seen. Then the twelve year-old shot up into the sky, Brightburn falling away beneath him as he took cover in the clouds. Covering miles in seconds, he entered the woods and practically skimmed the ground as he wove skillfully between the trees, coming to a halt just short of Aunt Merilee's backyard.

Retrieving his school backpack from the base of an oak, Brandon took off his repaired costume and stowed it inside, folded atop his school books. Swinging the pack onto his shoulders, he made his way through the trees and then along the road to the driveway. His side trip had taken only a couple of minutes; he'd still make it inside well before Aunt Merilee got home, so she wouldn't have a chance to worry about him.

The loss of first her husband, then her sister and brother-in-law, had all but destroyed his aunt emotionally. Now she clung to Brandon as if he was the last thing keeping her afloat. A serious fight had taken place before she agreed to let him to take the bus to and from school, rather than driving him herself. When it was just the two of them, she was always hugging him and telling him in a tear-choked voice how much she loved him.

Brandon wasn't fooled, though. He wouldn't be tricked that way again, not EVER! If at any point he believed his Aunt and guardian was starting to suspect his true nature, he'd kill her at once and greatly enjoy doing so. He felt nothing for her anymore; she was just a treacherous liar, like the rest of his so-called '_family_'.

Flying up to his room rather than walking, Brandon unzipped his bag and took out his costume, hiding it out of sight on his highest closet shelf with his sketch book. Dropping his backpack in the corner, he grabbed a book from the pile on his nightstand, the only one he had yet to finish reading: "Psychology of Human Behavior". Although the titles differed, the other four books in the stack all concerned the same subject.

His aunt seemed to think he was reading her books as some form of self-help, seeking a way to deal with the loss of his parents. In reality Brandon was educating himself about the depths of human pride, stupidity and stubbornness in order to more efficiently conquer the species.

His study of psychology and history had led him to the conclusion that simply flying to Washington D.C. and leveling the city before declaring himself the new ruler would achieve less than nothing. First, he needed to use the already existing governmental structures in order to maintain control of the masses. There were simply far, far too many humans infesting the planet for only one vastly superior being, no matter how gifted, to police them all. Of course, he could easily reduce the human population and might well have to, but he had to keep in mind that he wasn't here to destroy this world; he was here to take it. A fully subdued world full of billions of slaves was undoubtedly what his real parents wanted, and he had every intention of making them proud of him!

Then, too, wiping the United States capital off the map would panic the humans to the point where a nuclear weapon might be used against him. While Brandon was reasonably confident in his own toughness, he had yet to truly test the limits of his apparent invulnerability, and had no desire to do so by putting himself at the center of an atomic inferno.

No, he needed to teach the humans fear of him gradually, to start small and steadily work his way up, allowing the terror-stricken survivors to spread tales of his power far and wide. He would produce greater and more deadly works of performance art as time went on, widening the area in which he operated, until word of him had spread to every corner of the planet and the mere rumor of his coming would send people fleeing madly! He had to break the humans' will to resist, torment them to the point where the populations would beg their respective governments to submit so that they would be spared his continuing wrath!

It would be a project spanning the next several years, but that was okay. Better to take his time and do things right rather than act impatiently and throw all into anarchy. Besides, the time scale would give his powers a chance to fully develop as he grew up, assuming they hadn't already.

Today Brandon had taken the first step in his plan by deliberately allowing himself to be seen and photographed above the streets of Brightburn. This was the beginning of the long road which would lead to his to utter dominion over everything.

"Brandon! Are you home?" Aunt Merilee called upstairs.

"I'm upstairs in my room," he called back to her.

She walked up the stairs and into his room, leaning down toward him and extending her arms for a hug. Dutifully he returned the embrace, trying not to roll his eyes.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"Fine," he answered tonelessly.

A shadow of a frown crossed over Aunt Merilee's face. She kept waiting for him to open up to her, as if she hadn't taught him herself how dangerous that was. Fortunately, for her, she seemed to have forgotten all about reporting his feelings to law enforcement, an oversight undoubtedly helped along by Sheriff Deever's death.

"What do you want for dinner?"

"Can you cook hamburgers and hot dogs tonight?"

"Sure!"

She started to leave, pausing at the door and turning back to look at him.

"Was there anything else you wanted to talk about, Brandon?"

"No," he told her, returning his attention to the last chapter of the book.

"Okay. Be down for dinner in half an hour, all right?"

His disinterested nod was enough to send her from his room, and good riddance.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Life at school went on much as it had before, except the teachers all treated him sympathetically and Caitlyn Connor avoided him like the plague. He still wanted her, that hadn't changed. It was clear, however, that she didn't appreciate what he was offering her, so he was generously putting off making his next approach, giving her a chance to get her head together and thus lessen the possibility she would say or do something to fatally piss him off.

One person whose treatment of him hadn't changed in the least was Royce Martin. The black boy continued to make his little verbal taunts and jabs, his feeble witticisms affecting Brandon no more than they always had.

Until one Monday, roughly four weeks after he'd started living with Aunt Merilee. The last bell had rung, and the kids were filing down the halls toward the exit. With Halloween fast approaching, much of the talk centered around what costumes everyone would be wearing. As usual, Brandon wasn't participating in the conversation, but Royce called out to him anyway.

"Hey, Breyer, what are you going as, Tarzan? Oooh, that's right, you already are an orphan in real life!"

Much of the chatter fell silent at this. Even Royce looked taken aback for a moment, like he realized he'd gone too far.

Brandon came very close to ripping the idiotic boy's limbs off and letting him bleed to death on the dirty floor. Only the slenderest thread of self-control kept him from making that wonderful vision into reality. He shut his eyes tightly to hide their red glow; let the other kids think he was holding back tears. He blindly bulldozed his way through the crowd and out the door, his hands trembling with the desire to use his full strength to fling these insects from his path.

Brandon scrambled up over the side of the stone steps, dropping down to the ground. With his eyes open now, he sprinted past the track circle, past the football field, and into the woods. He stopped once he was safely out of sight, and drew in a deep breath. He couldn't kill Royce in front of everyone. He. Could. Not! Doing so would blow his cover and there was too much to be gained by keeping his identity a secret.

Yet his fury continued to boil and roil through him, coupled with the nigh irresistible urge to vent it through violence! There was no way he could calm himself down from this, not without killing. And if he couldn't kill Royce . . .

A cruel smile slid across Brandon's young face. Yes, that was perfect! Poetic justice! Dropping his backpack at his feet, he zipped home, changed his pants and shirt, and put on his costume. Soon he was staring down at the two-story office building in Brightburn which held Farmer's Insurance. Edward Martin was the head of this branch of the company, with his wife Shawna being one of the insurance agents working under him. Both of their cars, the black Cadillac and the golden Honda, were in the parking lot.

Flashing down at super-speed Brandon smashed through the doors and through the bodies of those in his way. He destroyed the building's internal supports as he traversed it lengthwise, also taking care to crush the heads of both Martins. As the structure collapsed inward behind him, Brandon used Martin blood to paint his double B on the last wall before exiting through the falling roof of his new work of art and curving sharply upward into the sky. He returned to his room, took off and hid his costume, changed his clothes back to what they were, and finally flew back to the woods near his school.

Picking up his backpack again, Brandon affected a downcast expression as he trudged back toward school and Aunt Merilee. He'd tell her he had missed the bus and she'd be glad to drive him back home.

Although satisfied and content now, the alien boy wasn't wholly at peace. This was a bigger step than he'd thought to take so soon. Would it expose him? He didn't think so. Caitlyn was the only one who would know what he'd done and she was clearly too frightened to tell anyone about him. Besides, he'd destroyed the building so quickly there may have been no witnesses to the act, assuming none of those within survived. That Royce should lose his own parents right after taunting Brandon would be quite a coincidence, but surely none of these idiot humans would pick up on that fact.

Over the next week Megan spent much of her time counseling Royce Martin over the loss of his parents. Then his uncle arrived to take custody of him and Royce moved away to his new home in South Carolina.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

To Brandon's ire, it turned out a woman named Marsha Rowan had succeeded in filming much of the building's collapse on her phone, even capturing footage of him as he flew away from the scene. That, added to a photo of him hovering above Brightburn, had generated a great deal interest, speculation, and fear. Not enough fear, though. It was time to take the next step. On Saturday he managed to persuade Aunt Merilee to let him play around in the nearby woods, unsupervised, until lunch.

Not wanting to risk burning his town, not yet, Brandon instead donned his costume and flew to the western part of Kansas. Once there he began using his heat vision to set forests aflame. Amid the blazing trees he joyfully hunted every fleeing lesser life form which caught his eye: birds, rabbits, possum, deer, humans. He drank in the nectar of his prey's terror, sadistically toying with his many victims, frequently making them choose between facing him and going into the flames.

A surprising number chose the fire.

After a blissfully glorious four hours, Brandon rose up like the boy god he was from the flickering, achingly beautiful yellow and orange Hell he'd created. He flew home for lunch, pausing only to scorch a giant version of his artistic signature into the field of a nearby farmer.

For the rest of the weekend Brandon was visibly happy, a fact for which his Aunt thanked God. Her twelve year-old nephew, her sister's son, was the last person she had left; she honestly didn't know what she would do without him.

Brandon knew very well what he'd do without her, but that was for the future. For now, Brandon reveled in the knowledge that he was fulfilling his destiny!


End file.
